


Pinch

by apple_crumblebatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:51:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_crumblebatch/pseuds/apple_crumblebatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely no one could be so foolish as to believe they were awake while dreaming?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinch

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and written in the space of a few hours so I heartily apologise for any/many mistakes!

Sunlight barges in through the drawn curtains, impatiently coaxing me to consciousness. Temperature of bed approximately.....10°C higher than average sleeping conditions. Some sticky concoction splattered across my naked chest. Experiment gone wrong?

I taste the solution. Oh! definitely not an experiment then. Odd, for me to have lost control of my bodily functions in such a way. I turn my head to look at John, who should not have been there. 

He's....definitely naked. We appear to have been _intimate_. I have no major problems with this.

I track the pupil movement beneath his eyelids, attempting to deduce what he may be dreaming of. I want to lick them. Can probably lick the now we have shared a bed. I do. 

His salty aftertaste sits heavy on my tongue as I press it against the thin membrane shielding his eyes from the wretched soppiness I know must be practically oozing out of mine. 

Sentiment- it had made itself at home in my mind and refused to budge, taking up an inappropriate amount of space for something so ordinary. 

John Watson invaded and conquered every last morsel of my existence. He bent me, prodded me, shook me up until even I could not recognise myself in the aftermath. 

For John, and John only, I am (had been, will _always_ be) prepared to do anything.

He's awake now, a moment of tension visibly paralysing him as he adjusts to the unfamiliar environment of my room. A shiver heads towards my heart. I want to wrap him up in me, hold him up against my chest so he never feels unguarded.

I want to keep him from ever feeling pain. I want to give myself to him entirely, to strip myself bare and lay limp in his hands, a ball of dough at his disposal. 

I feel a firm yet heartbreakingly gentle hand against my brow, running over the frown lines I was previously unaware of. Tension leaks out my eyes, dripping off my chin onto the soft contour of his body. It collects in a warm, salty puddle at the centre of his chest.

I wipe my tears off his skin, lingering above his heart to learn of the exact rhythm of its steady beating. His chuckle rises out of the silence, soft eyes teasing as he reaches up to my arm, tracing lines down my skin as if he were grounding me. 

"Hey, none of that now. I'm here. It's okay... I'm okay. You're awake and everything is alright, see?"

The pattern against my skin alters slightly, his nails making an appearance as he brings them together and pinc-

 

\-----

My phone rings.  
I pick it up, and cannot operate my voice for what feels like an age. 

"Sherlock?"

It's John, his voice is strained.

"Sherlock, mate-" 

_(at this point I can almost hear his facial expressions rearrange themselves into a cringe)_

"You've not rented my room out to anyone, have you? Its just- it's Mary.....Things haven't been so great between us since-"

His voice cracks here.  
My heart cracks here.

My voice is still refusing to respond to the frantic messages my brain is sending, so we sit in silence for over a minute. The tension is so thick it could have a physical form.

I clear my throat, forcing words I have longed to say for a decade into existence. 

"Come home John"

"Alwa- Sherlock, it was always home to me."

Years alone has seen me analysing every word we ever exchanged, but I never allowed myself to hope. After all, he chose her and not me. 

But now.... well I can hear it now, the unfinished part of his sentence. 

_"You were always home to me"_

The phone line clicks. This is it. This is happening. A line from one of the dull sitcoms John used to enjoy scratches away at my brain.

Surely no one could be so foolish as the believe they were awake while dreaming? I pinch myself just in ca-

 

\-----

The cab driver is unimpressed. Not surprisingly as we're both shivering up a small earthquake, eyes darting side to side like criminals waiting in the interrogation room.

I can't take this much longer. The chlorine is burning a firey path behind my nose, overwhelming my senses and eating at my brain. 

I push my nose into John's stupid cardigan. He shoots me a concerned look, but does not appear uncomfortable with our relative positions. 

I shift closer, craving the warmth and security of his existence, nuzzling further down his chest. 

My cheek catches against one of his shirt buttons. I nibble at it, mental capacity reverting back to that of a two year old as my brain attempts to deal with the events of the past hour. John's breath hitches, body turning to liquid as if I had flicked some switch deep within him. 

Oh! this one part of John is very not-liquid-like at all. I raise my head so our eyes are level, uncertain as to what to do with these changed conditions.

John places his hand on my head, like it belongs there. I feel him through every strand of hair, a connection both bone deep yet no where near close enough. 

I want to touch all of him at once. I want to touch all of him forever. I want to stay like this, tucked up underneath his armpit, his entire body orientated towards mine.

John Watson is a compass. Reliable, accessible and steady. I am north. I am cold, distant, untouchable. 

He guides my hand to his chest. I feel, see the adrenalin and arousal rush through his veins as his heart clammers underneath my fingers, body temperature rises, pupils dilate. 

His nails rake against my thighs, desperately gripping for something, anything. They catch on skin, scratching and pinchi- 

 

\-----

My eyes open with a start, immediately seeking out the reassurance of his form. The bed beside me is empty, the pillows untouched. 

The stairs place themselves beneath my feet as I take them two, now three at a time. The door to his room is ajar. Uncommon. The bed empty. Where is he? Panic. 

Feels like my heart is suffocating, ears aching under a phantom pressure. 

Feels like there's not enough room in my body. 

There's something wrong. The room is too neat, too empty. No clothes in the cupboard, the contrast between the bleached paintwork and the slightly darker patches the only evidence of the photographs that once hung there.

My frantic pants echo around the space, taunting me as the ricochets scrape up against my eardrums. 

My eyes catch a shape in the corner. Heart beating four violent semiquavers, before dropping, plunking against my ribcage feebly, dying away.

It's his cane. 

John has moved on, leaving only his old abandoned cane and my broken, useless excuse of a heart.


End file.
